May the Good Lord Bless & Keep You
by On-the-right-road
Summary: A look into the first few months of Angela Turner's young life and an account of how she touches those whose lives are intertwined with hers. Set between October - December 1959. When all your prayers are answered what other prayers can you offer up?
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, all credit and copyright belong to Heidi Thomas, Jennifer Worth, Neal St Productions & the BBC.**_

**_Author's Note: This first chapter sets the scene in the Turner household post-adoption. Subsequent chapters may occur earlier in the timeline. To make it easier to follow, each _**_**chapter will be marked with Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.**_

**_In this chapter Angela is one month old._**

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Shelagh slipped her key into the lock and stole into the hallway, quickly shrugging off her coat as she did so. She had ended choir practice fifteen minutes earlier than she should because she couldn't wait any longer to be home, reunited with her beautiful family. The word echoed through her head for what seemed the thousandth time. She couldn't stop the smile which spread across her face as she thought of them: her dashing and devoted husband, her sweet-natured (though occasionally sassy) stepson and, to complete the picture, the most gorgeous little girl in the whole world.

"Hello?" she called softly, not wishing to startle anyone who was downstairs or disturb anyone who was upstairs. Despite being out on call until the early hours, Patrick had insisted that he was fine to look after the baby for the evening, that his wife should finally resume her rehearsals with the Choral Society after all-but forgetting them in the weeks since their competitive triumph.

She had left him with a pang in her heart, sitting in his armchair giving Angela her bottle. The baby was suckling intently and remained oblivious to the gentle kiss and caress her mother bestowed upon her head.

Now there was a low lamp light illuminating the doorway to the living room but light was also spilling on to the landing above her and she couldn't determine which room it might be from.

Receiving no response to her call, she gently pushed open the living room door and peeked her head round it. Her heart almost stopped at the sight which greeted her: Patrick lay on his back on the couch, filling the length of it - apart from his slipper-clad feet which were dangling over one end. His head was propped on a cushion at the other end, his sleeping face angled slightly towards her and towards his shoulder, where his large hand was wrapped around the tiny form of a softly-snoring baby. Both father and daughter had their mouths slightly open in repose and Shelagh could hear their breaths sighing in synchronicity.

She took a moment to drink them in, wanting to store this mental image with the many others she had accumulated over the past three weeks: Timothy holding his baby sister for the first time; Patrick dancing round their bedroom rocking the little girl back to sleep; the look of pride and wonder on his face as he heard her sing a lullaby to their daughter for the first time.

She padded gently over to them and crouched down by her daughter's tiny hand where it was curled against Patrick's shoulder. She couldn't resist reaching out to stroke her finger over the dainty digits, breathing in the talcum powder scent which indicated that her Daddy had given her a bath before bed. Although, obviously, a moment of relaxation had overtaken them both before Patrick could ascend the stairs.

Shelagh lowered herself gently to kneel on the floor beside them. In the whirlwind of events which had overtaken the Turner household in the past few weeks, it was the quiet moments like these which gave her the greatest joy. Her eyes swept over the delicate features of the sleeping baby, drinking in every detail - though she was sure each one was already permanently etched on her mind, so adoringly had she gazed at her new daughter in the weeks since they had brought her home.

Similarly, her gaze moved over the familiar features of the husband she loved beyond all measure. Her lips quirked into a smile at the peace, the utter contentment, she could read in his face, and then she found herself laughing quietly at the unidentified substance she saw streaking the ends of his unruly hair where it had flopped over his forehead in the vicinity of their daughter's rosebud mouth.

His eyelids fluttered slightly at her quiet exhalation, so she reached to sweep the lock of hair in question back and away from the baby's face lest it tickle her. His eyes slowly blinked open as she did so and a gentle smile spread across his face as he took her in. His eyes flicked quickly down towards the peaceful form of their daughter and then back up again to meet her gaze. "Hello," he whispered in a voice thick with sleep and rich with warmth. "You're home." His words felt like a welcome and an embrace and an invitation all rolled into one.

Gingerly he swung his legs to the floor and brought his other hand up to cradle the baby. Oh-so carefully he managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position and, while Angela made several tiny grousing noises which caused them both to hold their breath, she did not stir any further. Patrick reached for his wife's hand and beckoned her on to the couch with him. As she tucked in beside him he lowered the little girl down into her waiting arms. "Here's your Mummy, my little angel," he murmured, causing a surge of happiness to course through Shelagh.

As Patrick released his hold on the baby he impulsively leant down to place a featherlight kiss on her downy head. And then, much to Shelagh's surprise as she was now gazing once more at the sleeping infant who so captivated her, he ducked in to ambush her mouth with a kiss not-quite-so light but equally as loving. He moved his lips gently but insistently against hers until they parted and she sighed into his mouth. The tenderness of his touch drew her in, her heart as full of love for him as her arms were full of tender care for their daughter.

When he finally broke the kiss and pulled back he couldn't help but break into a grin at her raised eyebrows: "What was that for?" she asked with amused affection.

"I missed you," he shrugged happily. "We missed you."

His smile was infectious and she replied in kind: "I missed you too. Both of you."

She tore her eyes away momentarily to glance towards the table, seeing Timothy's school books neatly stacked there. "All of you," she amended, her smile widening at the thought of her much-loved stepson, now a doting big brother to the little baby cradled in her arms. "Did Timothy finish his homework?"

Patrick shook his head ruefully. "Not all of it. He was too busy playing with this little one," - he stroked a finger down the softness of the baby's cheek. "I had to take her off him and sit at the table while he did his sums. He says he prefers it when you help him. Apparently I try to tell him the answers instead of helping him to work them out for himself."

Shelagh laughed, picturing the scene. They were so alike in many respects, her boys. Both had highly inquiring minds but there was a tendency in each of them to want to run before they could walk. Almost literally in Tim's case, she thought, when it had come to removing the braces which his bout of polio had occasioned him to wear. The poor boy had been through so much, it made her heart swell with love and pride to think of how brave he'd been.

"I'll help him with the rest of it after breakfast," she reassured her husband. Her eyes were drawn downwards then as she felt the baby begin to squirm in her arms. A wriggle of her body was followed by one foot kicking against Shelagh's thigh, a tiny bunched fist reaching up towards her. Angela's eyes blinked open and met those of her mother, her mouth silently opening and closing as if in greeting.

"Hello my darling girl," Shelagh cooed. "Are you happy to see me? Was that a smile for Mummy?"

"Actually, my love, I think she's hungry - right on cue ," said Patrick looking at his watch. "I gave her a bottle just before her bath, around seven o'clock. Three hours as usual."

He reached over and brushed his little finger over the baby's lips, watching in amusement as she tried to suckle on it.

"That's my girl. Regular as clockwork aren't you?"

He withdrew his hand and stood up from the couch. "I'll heat up her next one. Do you want a Horlicks before bed?"

Shelagh nodded in contented agreement and turned her attention back to rocking the now wide-awake infant, trying to soothe away her increasing fidgetiness. Angela's mouth opened and closed once more and all of a sudden her eyes scrunched closed and a sharp wail pierced the air.

"Oh dear! This won't do, will it?" Shelagh rose from the couch and transferred the baby to her shoulder, rubbing her back and singing softly into her ear, trying to hush her. She walked through to the kitchen where Patrick was busy placing the bottle in a pan of boiling water.

"Two more minutes," he smiled. "Do you want me to take her?" Suddenly overcome with tiredness, Shelagh nodded gratefully and carefully transferred the little girl back into her father's arms. He continued to rock her, murmuring nonsense to her while cradling her close to his face and dropping the occasional kiss onto her reddened cheeks. Gradually her flailing limbs stilled and her cries tailed off to a whimper. "That's my girl," he cooed again, smiling in triumph at a relieved Shelagh.

"I'm going to have a real Daddy's girl on my hands when she's older, aren't I?" she asked fondly.

She tested the bottle and offered it to him but he shook his head. "I gave her a feed earlier. I think she'd like to spend some more time with her Mummy before bedtime. Wouldn't you, my little angel?" he asked, stroking her cheek.

He passed the snuffling baby back to Shelagh who placed the bottle to her lips. She was gratified to see her immediately begin to suckle noisily from it . Patrick moved closer and slipped an arm round her shoulder, placing a tender kiss to her crown.

"My two beautiful girls," he proclaimed softly. "Why don't you take her up and I'll bring your drink up with me?"

By the time he'd tidied away in the kitchen, turned off all the lights and carried the steaming mug upstairs, Angela was safely tucked up in her cot at the foot of the bed and Shelagh was equally cosily ensconced in their bed.

He surveyed the room, a smile playing on his lips until Shelagh looked up from her bible passage and noticed he was still in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" she asked quizzically.

"Nothing's the matter," he sighed dramatically, happily. "Nothing at all. I must be the luckiest man in Poplar. No, the whole of the East End. No! The whole world. I'm the luckiest man in the world."

She smiled indulgently. She'd heard those words before - had heard them often in the early days of their fledgling relationship, in the days when she had been too self-conscious to respond to his flattery. And she'd heard them more often still in their early days as newlyweds, when, increasingly emboldened, she had come to appreciate the truth behind the sentiment; that against all odds they had found each other, had come to share a bond forged in a crucible of suffering and separation, and had emerged together to forge a new life filled with love and laughter, joy and hope.

But then so many of those hopes had been dashed, and suffering and separation - or at least distance - had seemed to beset them again. Only four weeks ago she had found herself questioning the happiness she had thought would last forever, had begun to feel the foundations beneath her start to shake, the certainties crumble. But he had clambered over the rubble to reach for her once more, to pull her towards him out of the fog and to set them back on the right road.

And now: now she could hardly believe how many dreams had come true. She beamed at him and his eyes glittered in response to the emotions he could read flitting across her face.

"Come here," she beckoned, putting her bible aside and reaching a hand towards him. He strode eagerly forward, deftly depositing the mug of milky drink on the bedside table, twining his fingers through hers and scooting alongside her on the bed. He moulded himself to her contours under the covers, his other arm reaching round her waist and drawing her towards him.

"I'm here," he murmured against her ear. "You're here. She's here," - he nodded towards the baby's cot - "and Tim is just down the hallway. My whole world..." She angled herself towards him and interrupted his litany by laying a gentle finger to his lips.

"Hush," she instructed quietly. "I've just got her off to sleep. Besides, you don't have to tell me. You're my whole world too, all three of you. You're everything I've ever wanted, all I need. And I... "

She paused as she felt his stubble start to scrape her skin, his lips grazing against her neck and down to her collar bone. They found their way to the one spot he knew she couldn't resist and she suppressed a moan of pleasure. Her arms snaked round the nape of his neck and under her breath he heard her whisper: "And I don't want to let go any more..."

_**Please review if you have the time!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: as this story switches back and forth in the timeline, each chapter will be marked by Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.**_

**_In this chapter Angela is one day old._**

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The door creaked open and the frazzled face of a worn out looking woman peeked round it into the room. Her worried frown immediately caught Sister Julienne's attention and evoked her sympathy.

"Come in Mrs Jones," she beckoned. "Please. Come and sit with your daughter."

"Are you sure, Sister? Only my John don't reckon it's right 'er being in the 'ouse like this. 'E reckons she should be in the maternity 'ome."

"It might have been better under the circumstances," Sister Julienne agreed sympathetically. "But be that as it may, Evelyn's labour was far too advanced for us to risk moving her. Please, try to put your concerns aside and be strong for your daughter. It won't be long now. A girl needs her mother at a time like this."

The woman nodded and sat down on a chair at the head of the bed. She leaned forward to grasp the hand of the wide-eyed girl groaning quietly in pain.

"I'm 'ere," she said, stroking a damp strand of hair from the young woman's pale forehead. "But you should 'ave told us Evie. You should 'ave let us know soon as your waters broke."

The girl lay back as the contraction passed and tightened her grip on her mother's hand in contrition. "I'm sorry Mum. I was frightened. I know what Dad says, but I didn't want to go to that place. I want to have my baby here at home. I want him here with me."

Tears pricked her eyes and Sister Julienne exchanged a sorrowful glance with Cynthia who was quietly, unobtrusively, checking on the baby's progress.

"I know you do love, I know you do," Mrs Jones soothed, but her worried glance towards the door didn't go unnoticed by Sister Julienne.

"Here comes another contraction," warned Cynthia as the girl tensed up once more. "You're doing splendidly. Baby is well on his way now."

"Ok Evelyn," Sister Julienne counselled, focusing once more on the matter at hand. "Deep breaths now. We want you to pant through this one, just like we told you. All right?"

The girl nodded vigorously but the fear in her eyes was unmistakeable. As the pain rippled through her lower body she let out a guttural cry which reverberated around the room. Sister Julienne leaned over her and firmly grasped her shoulders until she calmed enough to follow the nun's lead in blowing out breaths. "Good! Good girl, keep panting now," she enthused as the teenager's eyes tracked her face.

"That's it!" encouraged Cynthia. "The head's crowning."

Sister Julienne released Evelyn's shoulders and joined Cynthia at the foot of the bed.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed. "You're doing so well Evelyn. A few more pushes and your baby will be born. Now on this next contraction we need you to push with all your might."

"I can't!" the girl wailed. "I can't do this any more. Mum, help me. Make it stop! Please, make it stop..."

Tears streaked the faces of mother and daughter as the pain caused the younger woman to cry out again.

"I can't, Evie. I can't stop it. Nothing can. C'mon now, be a good girl. It's nearly over." She clumsily attempted to swipe the tears off her daughter's cheek with the hem of her housecoat.

"Inn'it Sister?" she pleaded with Sister Julienne. "Tis nearly over?"

"Yes, Mrs Jones. We're nearly there." At Cynthia's nod she continued: "Right, come on now Evie, we need a big push now. Push down into your bottom."

The girl did as instructed, heaving forward with the effort.

"The head's delivered!" proclaimed Cynthia excitedly. "One last push now, and baby will be born."

Evelyn lay back and laughed almost hysterically before tightening her grip on her mother's hand and leaning forward once more, teeth gritted.

At the foot of the bed Sister Julienne watched transfixed as the baby finally slithered from its mother's body, a splash of amniotic fluid easing its entry into the world.

This rite of passage never ceased to amaze and thrill her, despite having witnessed it hundreds - if not thousands - of times. A new life had begun here, she marvelled; a new soul bequeathed to the world by the Good Lord. In every newborn baby, Sister Julienne saw a blessing and a promise for the future; the infinite potential for this tiny creature to inspire love and laughter and joy. And so much happiness, she prayed, wanting nothing but happiness for this baby, born into the midst of what she knew to be an unhappy home.

"It's a little girl!" she heard Cynthia announce, just as the little girl herself began to announce her arrival with the ululating cry of the newborn.

She glanced up to see Evelyn Jones and her mother with their foreheads pressed together, both sobbing and smiling at the same time, caught up in the everyday miracle which had just taken place.

"It's a girl, Evie," Mrs Jones repeated sniffling, wonder and pride nevertheless suffusing her voice. "A baby girl!"

Sister Julienne assisted Cynthia in clamping and cutting the cord and then gently wrapped the still-squalling infant in the towel laid out for her. The baby began to quiet as she was picked up and Sister Julienne caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes shielded by delicate feathery eyelashes.

"You have an absolutely beautiful baby girl," she said softly as she gently placed the infant into the outstretched arms of the waiting teenager. "Congratulations."

"My girl," Evelyn whispered, tears splashing down her cheeks and wetting the baby's head.

She glanced up at her mother and a look passed between them, a new understanding which Sister Julienne had often seen communicated silently between first-time mothers and their own mothers.

It was a feeling she never had and never would experience herself, and yet the very fact that she shared its absence with a young woman she had come to love like no other gave her the sense that she did in fact know what a mother-daughter bond felt like. It was a fierce protectiveness, an invisible cord stretched between them which meant that she hurt when Shelagh hurt, that she cried to see her suffering and she ached to make everything right for her.

"Mum?" she heard Evelyn ask. "Can you talk to him?" The girl was rocking the baby soothingly but looking intently at her mother, who was sitting alongside the bed with her head bowed. Mrs Jones glanced up and bestowed a weak, watery smile on her daughter and grand-daughter. "Evie, you know I don't agree. But..."

"You've got to talk to him! Please Mum? You have to. I can't let go of her..."

**_Please review if you have the time!_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note: as this story switches back and forth in the timeline, each chapter will be marked by Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.**_

**_In this chapter Angela is six days old._**

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From the moment Timothy told her of the adoption society's phone call, a fog seemed to descend upon Shelagh's mind. All thoughts of bus fares and harmonies and missing sheet music became clouded by an urgent need to speak to Patrick, to respond to the possibility that there was an unknown child waiting for them in equally desperate want of a home. Her memories of the next half hour or so were hazy; she had only a vague recollection of thrusting the sheet music into Trixie's waiting hands, of finding her way to Sister Julienne's office and of breathlessly explaining why she needed to use the telephone within it.

Sister Julienne had, of course, remained the picture of calmness throughout, ushering Timothy out of the office and laying a soothing hand on Shelagh's arm as she did so, willing her to draw breath and compose herself. Nevertheless it was with trembling hands and shaky voice that Shelagh made the phone call which was to change everything. When it was done she relayed what little she had been told to her former Mother Superior in a manner which was no less breathless, receiving a response no less composed than before. Sister Julienne had smiled beatifically at Shelagh, drawing her into a quick embrace before sending her on her way to fetch her husband with a heartfelt 'God speed' and 'May the Lord be with you' whispered in her ear.

Her thoughts had only started to clear when Patrick had emerged from the Noakes' house, a quizzical frown upon his face at finding his wife and son waiting for him in the street. Her rushed explanation had seen a myriad of emotions flicker across his face, ranging from joy to panic to disbelief to concern. She had heard him rebuke Timothy for his reaction to the plight of the baby's mother, but her step-son's words hadn't properly registered with Shelagh. At that point all her thoughts were racing ahead, trying to imagine the face of the baby girl who was to become their daughter, to picture how it would feel to finally hold her in her arms knowing that, this time, she wouldn't be asked to let her go.

They reached the Children's Home in no time at all. The journey had been swift and strained, with neither she nor Patrick able to express their hopes and fears aloud. Timothy's inquisitive questions about the baby had quickly tailed off when met with a series of "I don't know"s and "We'll see"s from his distracted parents. When they pulled up outside, Patrick parked the car and reached for her hand, hearing her audibly exhale in trepidation.

"Ready?" he asked quietly, his eyes seeking hers. The love and the certainty she saw there calmed her, the excitement underlying it warming her heart because she knew it was as much for her as it was for him. He knew how deeply she longed to raise a child with him. He wanted it all the more because he now understood how much she needed to fulfil her dreams, even if the depth of her desire had only recently become clear to him; things had been strained between them for a short while, even after the miraculous letter affirming that hopes she had thought might be dashed were very much alive. She had found her voice then to express her deepest fear; that theirs was no longer a happy home.

Patrick had reacted that morning with the same blank stare which he seemed to have been wearing for days, ever since the woman from the Children's Society had blindsided them with her casual revelation of war neurosis, and all that it had entailed.

But later that evening – finally - she had received proof that her words had percolated his worries, that he was ready to begin rebuilding their fragile relationship on firmer ground. Apologies exchanged, understanding gained, he had kissed her hand with all the passion and devotion she had come to know from him. She had set her sewing aside, leaned in to brush her lips across his cheek in return and then led him upstairs, where she finally felt bold enough to express her newfound resolve, to let him know what she wanted and needed from him.

Since that blissful night she had felt their bond not only restored, but deepened, strengthened. It was if they were newlyweds all over again, except where once there might have been shyness or silence or unspoken secrets there was now confidence, real conversation and, most importantly of all, a newfound commitment to be truthful and open with each other. There had even been one wonderful evening just the previous week, when she had been focused on finding a new piece for the choir to sing - that was until he had tugged her into his arms and waltzed her round the living room, his eyes never leaving her face, the smile never leaving his. It spoke to the new intimacy of their relationship and to the fact that Shelagh Turner felt closer and more in love with her husband than she had ever been, happier than she could ever have imagined possible.

Until today.

With her hand in his and her heart in her eyes, she walked towards the imposing building which sheltered the child who would soon be theirs. The very lady who had unwittingly caused a dark secret to cloud their marriage for a time was the same one who greeted them with the brightest of smiles, the one who led them to the door of a sunlit room where a new life and a new love awaited them.

Shelagh stopped to take another deep breath, fighting to control the nerves which threatened to overwhelm her. She was conscious of her husband's eyes on her as the lady laid a kindly arm around Timothy's shoulders and gently steered him back towards her office.

"Do you want to go in alone?" Patrick asked softly, fully aware of how momentous the meeting about to take place would be for her.

Her thoughts were racing as fast as her heart, but she was clear and certain on one thing: "No, Patrick. This is the closest I'm ever going to get to giving birth and I want and I need you to be by my side." The words, once spoken, seemed to calm her. It was somewhat akin to a birth she had realised, this process of meeting their daughter for the first time. Ordinarily she knew Patrick wouldn't be in the room with her, if she were the one who was in labour with their child. But she would have wanted him to be; oh, how she would have needed to have him there. And now - here - he was.

She gave up a silent prayer of thanks for this small mercy and took another steadying breath as he opened the door for her and ushered her through into the brightly lit nursery. Her eyes immediately travelled to the cot at the far end of the room, the one so appropriately decorated with a sunflower.

She took a few steps towards it but could go no further. Patrick glanced at her and sensed what she wanted of him, what she needed him to do. Her gaze didn't waver from the cot as he brushed her arm and moved past her, his own eyes now focused on the tiny baby he could see kicking away her blanket. A smile of pure adoration formed on his face as he leant over and set eyes on his new daughter for the first time.

"What's she like?" Shelagh asked in a voice choked with tears, cloaked in hope.

He glanced back over his shoulder at her anxious face and knew she would be unable to take the final few steps towards them. Her future as a mother beckoned, but it would be up to him to deliver their daughter into her waiting arms.

"Close your eyes," he intoned quietly.

She did so, holding her hands in front of her and trying to stop the trembling she felt coursing through her.

She heard a murmur of fabric on fabric as Patrick bent down to scoop the tiny baby into his arms, and then a mumbled 'Shhhhhh' in response to a quiet cry of protest as the tot flailed against him. His footsteps drew nearer and he glanced up at her with a look of total wonder on his face. Of course she didn't see it: she was still waiting, trustingly, her breath hitching, her body aching for the contact she knew was coming.

Finally, he stopped before her and began to slip the wriggling infant into the arms which would forever hold her close. "Here's your Mummy," he whispered tenderly as he relinquished her into Shelagh's care.

Shelagh's eyes slowly began to fill with tears as she gazed down, her heart filled with love, her once-empty arms now filled with the new life she had dreamed of for so long. She cradled the little girl to her, taking in every single feature from the downy hair on her head to the dainty pink feet kicking the air above her. The baby writhed and wailed softly in her embrace, her face scrunched up, her arms reaching up towards her mother. Her mother, thought Shelagh, the truth of the realisation threatening to overwhelm her once more.

She tore her eyes away for a brief moment to glance at her husband. "We have a daughter," she announced, her voice a mixture of joy and awe and disbelief. The shared happiness of the moment arced between them, her smile widening at the adoration she saw on his face.

He reached out towards the baby's flailing fists and gently touched his finger to her hand. Almost immediately she grasped the digit in her tiny grip and he began to grin unashamedly in delight.

"Hello, my little angel," he cooed, stroking his other hand over the softness of her crown.

"Are you Daddy's little angel?" Shelagh echoed. As the infant finally began to quiet and still in the comfort of her arms she couldn't help but add: "Because I think you're going to be Mummy's little angel too."

"She's _our_ little angel," Patrick clarified fondly, stooping down to place a brief butterfly kiss on the top of her head and stopping on the way back up to bestow a similar one to Shelagh's cheek.

"Come on," he prompted gently. "Let's take her to meet her big brother. And then we can take her home."

"Yes. Home." Shelagh murmured the word quietly but its implications hit her instantly, reverberating through her body like a sudden thunderclap. A kaleidoscope of images flashed through her mind; of settling the baby in a crib at the end of their bed, of bathing her in the sink, of sitting on the couch and giving her her bottle, of rocking her to sleep afterwards - so many moments of yearned-for joy awaited.

She looked up at Patrick, the excitement about the prospect of taking their daughter home writ as large on his face as it was on her own. She took a step towards him and his hand slipped round her waist. It stayed there as they made their way out towards the office, supporting and guiding her as her gaze returned time and again to the little girl now dozing peacefully in her arms.

They could see Timothy as they approached the part-glazed office door. He was sitting on a rather uncomfortable looking wooden chair, the comic which was open on his lap evidently failing to capture his attention. His legs were kicking back and forth in a familiar fidgety gesture of impatience and his eyes kept glancing towards the corridor. As he caught sight of them he bolted from the chair and then stopped dead when Patrick opened the door and ushered Shelagh through.

His face was a picture of happiness and hesitancy, his eyes flicking between his dad, his mum and the sleeping baby she was gently rocking in her arms.

"Timothy?" Patrick prompted. "Why don't you come and meet your little sister?"

He took a step forward then and Shelagh looked up, beaming at him with the biggest smile he thought he had ever seen on her face.

"Yes, come and say hello, Timothy. I'm sure she'll be wanting to meet her big brother too."

Timothy peered at the tiny infant and gingerly reached out a hand to stroke her head.

"Hello baby," he greeted. "I'm Tim. I'm your older brother."

Above his head, Shelagh and Patrick shared a watery smile. Oblivious, he moved his gaze down to the ten toes cradled in the crook of Shelagh's elbow.

"Wow! She's really tiny isn't she?" he exclaimed in a hushed whisper.

"She's less than a week old, Tim. You were that small once, believe it or not," Patrick reminded him teasingly. He moved round to lay an affectionate hand on his son's shoulder and watched as his wife proffered the baby towards them.

"What do you think Timothy?" Shelagh asked. "Would you like to hold her?"

Timothy shot an apprehensive glance at his father, but the encouraging smile he received in return was enough to overcome his hesitation. He held out his hands and, oh-so-slowly, gently, Shelagh slid the little girl across while Patrick supported her head, making sure it was nestled by Timothy's elbow before letting go.

A grin of pure pride and wonder broke out on his face. "Hello-" he began again before glancing quizzically up at his parents.

"What are you going to call her?"

Shelagh flushed at the realisation that in all the rush of excitement and longing and meeting and holding, she had only thought of her as 'the baby' or 'our daughter'. She turned towards Patrick who looked equally bemused.

He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and admitted "We hadn't considered a name for her yet Tim. She's just 'our little angel' - he turned, eyes twinkling, towards Shelagh - "Isn't she, my love?"

"Angel?" Timothy clarified. "Angela... You should call her Angela! Its almost the same isn't it?"

He looked excitedly between his parents, though in that moment their eyes were drawn only to each other's; Shelagh's glistening with tears, Patrick's glinting with pride.

"It's perfect," Shelagh whispered, breaking their gaze and reaching out to stroke a finger across the baby's cheek. "Angela. Our little angel."

Patrick reached for her too, sliding his large hands under her tiny body and gently easing her from Timothy's arms. "Well done Tim. It really is the perfect name for her."

He carefully slipped the baby back into her mother's beckoning arms before turning quickly and affectionately ruffling his son's hair. He caught hold of him before he could protest and drew the boy into his side, his other arm slipping round Shelagh's shoulder while she cradled their little girl.

"Come on then, Timothy and Angela Turner. I think it's about time we made this official and took you both home."

_**Please review if you have time!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: as this story switches back and forth in the timeline, each chapter will be marked by Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.**_

**_In this chapter Angela is one day old._**

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Evelyn Jones took her place at the dinner table of No 18 Sebastopol Street at precisely 6pm, the same time as she had done for as long as she could remember. Her mother was busying herself with dishing up some watery-looking veg while her father helped himself to a large slice of steak and kidney pie from the serving dish before him.

Evie felt as if she were observing her parents as if from another room, another place. Since giving birth early that morning to a little girl who had been prised from her arms just two hours later, she felt like she didn't belong with these people any more, didn't know how to relate to them. Even though her mother had cried at the first sight of her grand-daughter, still she had let her be taken, had blanched noticeably when Evie had dared mention the possibility of keeping the baby.

"You know I don't agree," Gloria Jones had said. "But I know what it's like to 'old yer baby for the first time. You don't wanna let go. It's natural." She'd said that she would try to talk to Evie's father, but Evie knew her mother well enough to realise that her words were hollow. They were uttered more for show than for substance, delivered mainly for the benefit of the two midwives who were still in the room with them. She also knew her father well enough to be aware that he rarely changed his mind - about anything.

The original plan had been for her to be admitted to the Mother's Home a few days before the baby was due. But Baby Jones had had other ideas and put in a surprise early appearance. The child was supposed to be taken away pretty swiftly after birth by the lady from the Children's Society, Mrs Litchcroft. The no-nonsense woman had visited the Jones at their neat terraced house when Evie had been in her 6th month of pregnancy and only just beginning to show.

Her father had done most of the talking during the meeting. Neither Mrs Litchcroft nor her mother had said anything to contradict him as he had plainly stated the reasons why the baby was to be given up for adoption: Evie was only just sixteen; the baby's father was still a schoolboy; she had a bright future and he wouldn't see it go to waste; and he declared - most stridently of all - that he would NOT allow her to repeat the same mistake as her mother.

Her mum had turned crimson at her dirty laundry being aired so publicly in front of this stranger. Evie's older sister, Pauline, had been born a mere four months after her parents registry office wedding, when her mum was still only seventeen. Her older brother, John Jr - or Johnny to his friends - had come along two years later, Evie herself a further two and a half years on.

She knew her father felt corralled into marriage, knew that it had scuppered all his plans for higher education and a career in banking. Instead he had been forced to take an apprenticeship in a garage, the sheer necessity of supporting a young family taking precedence over everything else. Over the years he had seen his dreams slip further and further from his grasp. He was a mechanic - a damn good one - but he was unlikely to ever amount to anything more.

His resentment had only spiralled over the years and his response had been to rule his household with a rod of iron. Her mother, so young and unschooled herself when they married, did not have it in her to stand up for herself, nor for her children. They had led a regimented family existence for as long as Evie could recall, drilled in their times tables as youngsters and their periodic tables as teenagers. Education was their father's religion, the dreams he had once harboured for himself now placed squarely on the shoulders of his offspring.

It was a burden which her older sister and brother had been unwilling to bear. Pauline had left school at fifteen to work in a factory, thumbing her nose at her father by marrying a fellow factory worker on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Now, barely five years later, she had three children of her own and a fourth on the way. Evie never heard her dad speak of them, knew her mum kept her visits to her grandchildren a secret from him.

At least it was more contact than remained with her son. Browbeaten for so long about the importance of studying, Johnny had also rebelled as a teenager. He had run away from home several times and had finally left for good just after his seventeenth birthday. There had been the occasional postcard since then - one from the Lake District and one from somewhere in Germany - but Evie had no idea where her brother currently was or what he was doing. She could only pray that he was happy.

It had fallen to her, then, to live up to the many expectations her father placed on his children. Luckily it was a burden which she was far better equipped to shoulder than her siblings. Her father had coached her from a young age, teaching her to read and write long before she was of school age. She had shown a natural aptitude for learning, his constant demands notwithstanding. She found her escape in poring over the science and astronomy and natural history journals which he brought home, losing herself in worlds far removed from her own.

She had also been fortunate enough to be among the first intake at a new school which had been founded in Poplar, a 'secondary modern' which was among the flagships of the new government's education policy. It had been accordingly well-funded, employing some of the brightest and best teachers in the area to deliver the Oxbridge curriculum. It was there where Evie had discovered her two loves; the more she learned of the life and career of Marie Curie, the more she knew she wanted to emulate her and become a scientific researcher. But then she had met Christopher, a sixth form student who shared her passion for science.

He was tall and lean and learned, his future already assured by a scholarship to Oxford, and to the 15-year old Evelyn Jones he was the most worldly-wise male she had ever met in her heretofore sheltered existence. He was sweet and kind and funny too, a natural complement to her shy and rather serious nature. But when he had made the mistake of calling round at Sebastopol Street one day to accompany Evie to their Saturday morning study group, John Jones had sent him packing with a flea in his ear, and Evie had been banned from any further contact with him.

For the first time in her life, the rebellious streak which all three Jones children possessed had come into play. She and Christopher had snuck away from lessons to meet in several secret rendezvous; the subterfuge and the daring of their trysts had added to the romance, and biology had taken over to do the rest. She'd been distraught when she realised what fate had befallen her. Her mother was even more so because she knew instinctively that the blame would be laid firmly at her door by an overbearing husband.

It was Evie who had broken the news to him in order to try and spare her mum the tongue-lashing which was sure to follow. Her father had always been vociferous in demanding total obedience within his household, but he was never violent. Therefore it had caught Evie by surprise when he had grabbed hold of her upper arm and marched her round to the doorstep of Christopher's house, a full half a mile away. A furious row had erupted outside the house, neighbouring curtains twitching all round in the usually respectable tree-lined avenue. She had caught a glimpse of Christopher's ashen face just as his mother had slammed the door, seconds after hurling the epithet "little East End tramp" in her direction.

That was the last time she had seen him. The next week she discovered his parents had removed him from their school and had sent to another sixth form college in a neighbouring borough. She had written to him, but without any assurance that he had received her letters. Even if he had, she doubted she would ever receive a response, so censoriously did her father guard the morning post.

Christopher wouldn't even know he had a daughter. But then Evie barely knew it herself, so quickly had events unfolded over the previous 24 hours. Her waters had broken while she was studying in her room. She had mopped up and somehow managed to sit through dinner without betraying the onset of her (albeit mild) contractions. It was only when they had become more frequent and more intense and she had been unable to stop herself from crying out that her mother had realised what was going on and had telephoned Nonnatus House in a panic. The soothing presence of the Mother Superior and the quiet young midwife who arrived had allowed Evie the luxury of delivering her baby at home without the threat of being bundled away to the Mother's Home as she had most feared.

But despite her mother's assurances her father had prevailed. While Mrs Jones had sat with her daughter during the later stages of labour, Mr Jones had been on the phone to the Children's Society. Barely an hour after Sister Julienne and her companion had left then Mrs Litchcroft and her colleague had arrived to take their place. Evie had been sat up in bed singing a lilting lullaby to soothe the baby when her mother had opened the door to usher the two women into the room. Her mum's face had been a picture of regret and contrition while Evie's froze in dread.

"What are you doing here?" she'd blurted out, even though deep in her bones she already knew she couldn't prevent what was about to happen.

"Hello Evelyn," Mrs Litchcroft had answered gently, sensing the girl's panic. "There's no need to be alarmed. Your mother tells me you've had a beautiful baby girl. May I take a look at her?"

Evie had cradled the baby closer, her eyes pleading with her mother, who remained mute in the doorway – that is until she yelped in surprise when the stocky figure of her husband pushed roughly past her into the room.

"Right then Evelyn," he'd said gruffly. "We all know why these two ladies are here. Let's get this over and done with." He moved purposefully towards the bed but was stopped in his stride by the outstretched arm of Mrs Litchcroft.

"Mr Jones, please? Allow me," she said quietly. "Believe me, it will be easier all round if you leave the handover to us."

Evie had taken the opportunity to look down at the baby, desperately trying to memorise every feature, every wrinkle, every hair on her tiny head. She was met with a pair of bright blue eyes blinking back at her uncomprehendingly. "I'm sorry, little one," she'd whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Mrs Litchcroft took a step towards her, her face filled with compassion and pity. "It's OK, Evelyn. I know this is never easy on you young girls. But the paperwork is all in place and your father is right; sometimes it's better to get these things over with quickly. Less of a wrench if baby doesn't know you."

Tears had started to spill down Evie's cheeks at the woman's words: "But she does know me," she said defiantly. "I'm her mother!"

Her breath hitched as Mrs Litchcroft laid a soothing hand on her arm. "She'll have a new mother soon. And a father. A couple who want her very much and who will be able to give her all the things you can't." Evie looked down at her daughter and prayed that all those things were true. She wanted to give her the world, wanted her little girl to have the happiest of upbringings, as far removed from her own regimented experience as possible.

"Come along, Miss Jones. It's for the best. It's time to say goodbye."

Evie leaned down to press a kiss to the baby's forehead, lingering there as she inhaled her unique newborn scent, drinking in the sight and sound and feel of her. "Be good, my little one," she whispered fiercely. "This isn't a goodbye for us, I promise you."

Gently, carefully, Mrs Litchcroft began to ease the infant away. Evie didn't resist as the little girl left her arms, but nor did she let go completely, until Mrs Litchcroft took a step back and the edge of the baby's blanket slipped from her outstretched fingers.

It was only when the woman turned to hand the baby off to her companion that the teenager looked away. She wrapped her arms around herself, tucked her head into her chest and let the silent sobs which she had been holding back wrack her body. In an instant her mother was by her side, stroking back her damp hair, trying to shush and soothe her, weeping quietly along at a distress which she was powerless to alleviate.

By the time Evie's sobs had subsided everyone else had left the room. Her mother was still holding her hand, a distant, distracted look on her face. At a quiet plea of "Mum?" she stood and helped the exhausted teenager to burrow further down beneath the bedclothes.

"Try and get some sleep Evie love," she said, tucking her in as tenderly as she had as a little girl. "I've got to go and see to your Dad. 'E'll not be pleased to 'ave 'ad strangers tramping through the 'ouse all morning." She sighed, knowing the price she would have to pay for the intrusions. She departed with a kiss to her daughter's still-damp forehead, leaving Evie to cry herself into a fitful sleep.

That slumber was interrupted several hours later when Mrs Jones returned, clumsily setting down a tray of tea and sandwiches beside her. Evie lay still in the bed and took no notice, her eyes staring blankly at the wall.

"C'mon love, you 'ave to eat," her mother coaxed. Receiving no response, her voice became firmer: "Anyways, you'll 'ave to get dressed soon. Your Dad'll be expecting you down for your tea at six. You know 'ow he gets… "

She'd looked up at her mother then, waiting and willing her to ask how she was feeling, to reassure her that the baby was in good hands. But Mrs Jones evaded her daughter's piercing stare and set to opening the curtains. "It's a lovely day out, Evie!" she chattered. "Looks more like Spring than it does October. I reckon we should ask your Dad if 'e'll take us out in the van on Saturday. Maybe a run down to Southend. Do us all a bit a good, getting some sea air."

At the mention of her father Evie rolled over to face the wall away from the window, an idea forming in her mind. She heard her mother give a deep, dramatic sigh and turn to leave the room, but not before issuing a final reminder: "Six o'clock sharp, Evie."

And so at the appointed time Evie was sat at the table watching her parents dishing up tea. As was often the case in the Jones household the mealtime passed in strained silence, save for the idle gossip which her Mum occasionally used to fill it. Her Dad saved his attention for his food, rarely looking up and seldom speaking - aside from the occasional grunt of acknowledgement when his wife stopped to await his response. Evie toyed with her food, even managing to swallow down a few mouthfuls, but her eyes were firmly fixed on the clock on the mantelpiece and her mind was racing ahead of it.

Finally, at 6.30pm her father gave permission for them all to leave the table, which meant it was time for him to retire to the front parlour to listen to his favourite radio programme. She and her mother were supposed to clear the table and do the dishes, but after she had carried an empty dish through to the kitchen Evie darted into the hallway and grabbed her coat.

"Evie, what are you doing?" her mother had hissed sotto voce, wary of disturbing her husband.

Evie had no such qualms. She squared her shoulders and banged open the front door so the whole household would hear. Her voice rang loudly and clearly as she ran out into the street:

"You know I didn't want to let her go. I'm going to get my daughter back...!"

_**Please review if you have the time!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Apologies for the delay in posting this latest chapter. As is often the case, life got in the way...**_

_**Author's Note: as this story switches back and forth in the timeline, each chapter will be marked by Angela Turner's age at the time the events within it took place.**_

_**In this chapter Angela is six days**_ _**old. **_

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It was an entirely different Shelagh Turner who returned to 24 Bermondsey Lane that Friday evening. The woman who had left the house several hours previously had been full of nervous energy at the prospect of conducting the Poplar choir she had rejuvenated at the Truscott Choral Festival.

The Shelagh who Patrick Turner carefully ushered in through the front door now was still full of nerves and pride and excitement, but of a completely different kind and for completely different reasons. All of her emotions were now focused on the sleeping form of the tiny baby she was cradling in her arms. She was cuddling her close, as well she would the most precious cargo she had ever been entrusted with. Of course, as a nun and a midwife she had held many infants, and had handled every single one with gentle care and tender concern. But nothing could have prepared her for the overwhelming flood of love and the fierce sense of protectiveness which had swept all other feelings aside as Patrick placed their daughter into her arms for the first time.

"Here's your Mummy," he'd said in a hush, and she had opened her eyes to gaze down at the face which she had been waiting to see for so, so long. That face had been pink and scrunched up in gentle protest at being unceremoniously plucked from her cot. Yet within seconds she had stilled and settled, soothed by the gentle rocking and lilting voice of the woman who would now be her guardian, her protector and her champion; her mother.

Events had slowed and quickened in a dizzying fashion since then. The practicalities of paperwork had seemed to prolong their stay at the Children's Society Home by countless hours, whereas in reality it had probably been less than half of one before they were walking back out of the building, now officially a family of four. By contrast, the ride home had passed in a blur. Settled in the back seat alongside a bassinet packed with essentials loaned by the charity for their first weekend, Shelagh had spent the entire journey marvelling at her daughter's features, memorising each one and managing to miss entirely the frequent glances which Patrick was giving them both via the rear-view mirror.

When they stepped into the living room, Timothy bringing up the rear with the bassinet, Patrick eagerly reached for the baby, asking Shelagh's permission but proceeding to gently lift the little girl from her mother's arms even before it had been fully granted.

"Can Daddy have a cuddle now?" he asked in a hushed tone, filled with the same wonder she was feeling.

He settled her into the crook of his arm and brushed his thumb across the starfish spread of her fingers. "Welcome home, precious girl. This is your new home, my little angel." He turned slowly round, angling her body so she was facing away from him and towards the couch, the sideboard, the fireplace, the table in turn.

"What do you think, Angela? Do you think you'll be happy here?"

Shelagh couldn't resist any longer, and stepped forward to place a kiss on her daughter's head. "Of course you'll be happy, won't you my darling?" she cooed softly, stroking a finger down her cheek. "How could you not be, when you've already made Mummy and Daddy and Timmy the happiest family in the world?"

Patrick felt something within him settle into place at his wife's verdict. His mind was flooded with a rush of memories and feelings which all coalesced into one simple, certain truth: his present and every future happiness were all down to this woman. He leaned forward impulsively but carefully to capture her lips with his own. She responded without hesitation, her fingers resting on his jaw as she kissed him back with gentle, insistent passion. Even the sound of Tim tutting and pointedly dropping the bassinet onto the table could not persuade them to part, not until each had said everything they needed to the other through the soft press of their lips together; 'I love you', 'thank you for our family', 'you have given me everything I dreamed of', 'you are my home'.

It was a hiccupping noise from Angela which finally preceded their parting. Foreheads still touching, they both glanced down at the same time to see a pair of bright blue eyes gazing, unblinking but unfocused, back up at them. The baby hiccuped again as a tiny bubble of saliva formed on her rosebud mouth.

"I think somebody might be hungry..." guessed Patrick, sliding her back into Shelagh's arms and turning towards the bassinet.

"Timothy?" he called to his son who had retreated to the kitchen in disgust. "Could you put the kettle on please?"

He retrieved a bottle and some formula milk from the supplies in the bassinet as Shelagh rocked an increasingly ansty baby back and forth.

"Sweetheart? Do you remember how to make this stuff up?" he asked with no little embarrassment. Mrs Litchcroft had given them a quick rundown on measurements before they'd left the Children's Home but he had been too busy playing with Angela's toes to pay proper attention.

"Give it here!" Shelagh sighed in good-natured exasperation, handing the now-squalling infant over to her father.

"You're supposed to use two ounces of powder per bottle," Timothy announced, rolling his eyes at his father's helpless shrug.

Within a few minutes, Turner family teamwork had seen a bottle filled with the requisite amount of formula and offered to their grousing little girl. As Shelagh cradled her carefully, Timothy proffered the bottle to his sister's lips and watched in delight as his she latched on hungrily. Shelagh then took the bottle as her daughter continued to greedily gulp down its contents, before she finally turned her head away and started to spit a little back up.

Patrick grabbed a cloth from the bassinet and draped it over his wife's shoulder so that she could rest the baby there while she rubbed vigorous circles on her back.

"Why do you have to do that again?" asked Timothy curiously. "I mean, why do you have to make babies sick after they've just eaten? You did the same with Carole."

Over his shoulder Patrick shared a fond glance with his wife. "It's not designed to make them be sick, Tim. That's just one of the side effects, especially if they eat as quickly as your sister just did. But if we don't rub her back she'll get wind and it'll make her cry. And trust me, you won't want to be around if she gets wind."

"Why, will she fart a lot?" he asked innocently, looking at his sister with renewed interest. "Will it be very smelly?" She didn't look big enough to break wind, but then he knew how stinky babies' nappies could be.

"Timothy!" his mum scolded while his dad tried to suppress a smile. "Such questions!"

"No, Tim." his father explained, choosing to ignore them. "The wind would be trapped in her tummy and it would be uncomfortable for her. So we have to rub her back to try and bring it up by making her burp."

As if on cue, Angela emitted a tiny belch and Shelagh smiled in satisfaction. "That's my girl," she encouraged, continuing to pat and rub her back. A steady stream of little belching noises followed, finished off by a tiny dribble of formula from the corner of her mouth. Shelagh held her away from her shoulder and wiped it off just as the baby's mouth formed into an almighty yawn.

"Right, I think it's time we put you down for a wee nap now, my girl," she declared.

"Patrick, dear? Would you empty the bassinet and take it up to our room?"

"Yes, my love."

"And Timothy, dearest? I'd like you to fetch some potatoes from the larder and peel enough for dinner. I'll do the rest once I've settled your sister down."

"Yes, Mum."

Shelagh smiled to herself as the two Turner males set about doing her bidding. Gently settling the grousing baby into the crook of her arm, with her other hand she grabbed two nappies from the pile which Patrick had turned out onto the table before making her way upstairs.

She pushed open the door of their bedroom with her foot to find her husband finishing moving the chest of drawers from behind the door into the alcove nearer her side of the bed.

"I thought we could use this as a changing table until we get her nursery sorted," he explained. "And we can put the bassinet in here for tonight," - he indicated the open ottoman at the foot of the bed - "until I can go out and buy a cot. What do you think?"

She smiled her approval and sat down on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the completely oblivious cause of all the upheaval.

"I think she's finally fallen asleep," she whispered.

He came over and sat next to her, slipping an arm round her shoulder, his head resting lightly against hers.

"Not for long, I expect," he chuckled. Something in the knowing way he said the words prompted Shelagh to express a thought which had been tickling away at the back of her mind all day, or at least ever since that fateful telephone call had set events so rapidly in motion:

"Patrick? You are certain that you're all right with all of this aren't you?"

"With what?" he asked, clearly puzzled, wondering if she was having second thoughts about the furniture arrangement.

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the gentle rise and fall of the baby's chest as she spoke, her voice soft and quiet:

"Well it's just that you've been through all this before, all the sleepless nights and dirty nappies. And, well, you are a bit older than me..."

He quirked an eyebrow and gently nudged her shoulder with his own until she looked up to see his feigned annoyance:

"May I remind you that you told me just the other night that I have many of the attributes of a much younger man? I'm only _slightly_ older than you, my love."

"Well, yes. _Slightly_ older," she conceded, smiling and blushing at the same time. Her gaze was drawn back to the baby as she let out a soft whimper in her sleep.

"But you are all right with starting again as a slightly older-than-average father aren't you?" she asked, her doubts not quite allayed.

"Truthfully?" he asked, his eyes hooded and glittering, an expression she couldn't quite read crossing his face.

"Truthfully," she nodded in trepidation.

The smile he had twitchily been trying to suppress broke out full beam on his face and his arm tightened around her shoulder.

"Truthfully: I've never been happier. I feel like a young man again since you came into my life. You keep me young. You, and Tim, and now our gorgeous little girl."

She couldn't keep her delight at his words to herself, couldn't help but return his radiant smile: "You mean it?"

He placed a kiss on her cheek and looked down at the little girl who was the unwitting inspiration for this much-needed heart-to-heart:

"Shelagh, sweetheart, I'm besotted with her just like you are." He stood then and reached down for the baby. "Here, give her to me..."

Shelagh handed her over carefully and watched with glistening eyes as he gently laid their daughter down in the bassinet, loosely tucking a blanket around her. He bent down to brush a kiss over her brow, whispering "Sleep tight, my angel," before joining his wife back on the edge of the bed.

"There, you see?" he asked before slipping his arm back round her shoulder and drawing her closer. "In fact I'd say I'm as besotted with her as I am with her mother. Her beautiful-" His lips moved to the corner of her mouth,

"wonderful-" then across to the other corner,

"gorgeous-" then captured her bottom lip,

"adorable-" then trapped her top one,

"and oh-so-kissable mother..." he breathed, before closing his lips over hers completely.

"Mum! Dad! What's for tea?" came a familiar shout up the stairs, causing them to break apart in giggles. "I've peeled the potatoes. And I'm starving!"

"Welcome to parenthood," Patrick smiled, stealing one last kiss and pulling her up from the bed. "It's the gift that keeps on giving..."

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Several hours, another feed and one nappy change later it was Shelagh's turn to tend to Angela while Patrick caught up on the paperwork from his visit to the Noakes' household. It was only after Tim had gone to bed - chased upstairs slightly earlier than usual by the sights, sounds and smells surrounding his sister's nappy change - that he had felt able to reveal to her what had transpired there.

Shelagh's heart had broken when she learned of Chummy's ordeal, one which stood in such stark contrast to the unbounded joy which the day had brought them. She had not long finished murmuring prayers and psalms for her friend - and for all mothers and daughters, be they lost, found, bereft or adored - when a pyjama-clad Patrick entered the bedroom with the baby's night-time bottle.

The little one was lying contentedly in Shelagh's arms, her eyes wide open as if she were taking stock of her new surroundings. He handed the bottle over without words and climbed into bed beside them, his arm automatically snaking around his wife's waist. She glanced at him as she was raising the bottle to the baby's lips and caught the unmistakeable hint that he was in some way put out. She realised why as soon as she withdrew her hand and he reached for it

"Patrick, dear?" she queried, "Did you want to give Angela her bottle?"

She caught the way his eyes flared in the instant before he gave a slight, unconvincing shake of the head.

"No, no. You carry on!"

He was no better than his son in respect of convincing her; both wore their hearts on their sleeves, and she loved them both all the more for it.

"Here," she said, handing him the bottle and shuffling to the edge of the bed. "Move over this way."

He did so, settling in the middle of the bed with a puzzled frown.

She drew the bedclothes down and scooted over towards him, settling herself between his legs and leaning back against his chest. Realising what she was about, he reached down and drew the covers back over them, nestling her against him and nuzzling lips lips against her neck in gratitude.

"There," she declared. "That's much better! If I hold her, will you feed her?"

He kissed her lightly on the neck again, nodding and murmuring his agreement before bringing his arms round to place the bottle to the baby's slightly-open mouth. She took a couple of attempts to latch on, but soon she was suckling contentedly from the bottle while her parents looked on enraptured.

"We are so lucky," Shelagh sighed. "I can't help but feel for poor Chummy. To think she waited her whole life for her mother's approval. And to know she only received it when her mother was on her deathbed, if what Jenny told you was true."

"I'm sure it was," Patrick confirmed sorrowfully.

"Our daughter will never have to doubt it," she declared fiercely, emboldened by empathy for her friend: despite their wildly different circumstances both women had lived most of their lives lacking the love of their mothers.

"I don't understand it," she said, her tone more plaintive as she gazed at the baby. "Even though I've seen it more times than I would wish to..."

"Not everyone has your instincts, my love," he suggested gently. "You're a natural. I've always thought so."

"Always?"

He smiled, knowing that she was angling for a hint of his flowering affection. "I could see it at the very first birth we attended together. And the first time I had to bring Timothy with me to the clinic after his mother died... You were wonderful with him. You still are."

She bowed her head, her murmured response floating down towards her daughter: "I love him, Patrick. I love him every bit as much as if he were my own flesh and blood."

"Like you love Angela," he stated simply.

"Isn't that what mothers do?" she asked. "Isn't that what all parents should do? They love unconditionally. They don't judge. And they never let anything get in the way of that love."

She tilted her head to look into the depths of his concerned gaze. "I can't imagine how it could be any other way. You never stop loving your children, no matter what course life takes. Do you?"

"No, you don't," he exhaled. "You can't. I promised as much to Timothy's mother and I promise you as well; as long as we both live and breath, our children deserve to know they are loved and that we will never let anything or anyone come between us."

Before all three of them finally drifted off to sleep that night it was a promise which he had sealed with a kiss... or two.

_**Please review if you have time!**_


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